The Politics of Intemperance
by Ellie 5192
Summary: (Or How Office Romances Are Usually A Stupid Idea And Should Be Avoided At All Costs) "When they'd started this dance a little over six months ago, she never could have predicted it would bring them here- standing at work, confessing their love in not so many words, and trying hard not to rip each other's clothes off." Raydor/Flynn, EST. One-shot.


_Raydor/Flynn, EST, future-fic, non-canon, one-shot, rating for swear words and debauchery._

_When they'd started this dance a little over six months ago, she never could have predicted it would bring them here- standing at work, confessing their love in not so many words, and trying hard not to rip each other's clothes off._

_**The Politics of Intemperance**_

**_(Or How Office Romances Are Usually A Stupid Idea And Should Be Avoided At All Costs)_**

She heard the door close behind her as she was pouring hot water into her teacup, dunking the bag a few times. She knew who it was without looking, because there was nobody else it could be, and since everyone would probably have gone home straight from the scene, he was the only one who would come looking for her.

"It was nothing, really- barely a scratch-"

She cut herself short when she turned around, noticing the dark look in his eye; noticing the way he stood with one hand on the door, as though afraid to relinquish that grounding grip to reality; to a time and place where she was standing alive and well and unharmed in front of him. The breakroom and most of the office space was deserted, and she was glad for that, because the way he was looking at her could be interpreted in one of two ways; either he was getting arrested for murder or for indecent exposure. Maybe both. In fact, probably both, given how recklessly she'd barrelled into the suspect's house earlier.

She could only imagine his panic at seeing her hurt; saw in her mind the scene- of Provenza giving him a knowing look because he was pacing like a goaded bull, ready to charge, waiting to leave the scene and get back to the station to check up on their fearless leader.

Provenza never was a fool about them, much to her consternation.

Andy was standing there, motionless, looking at her like she was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow; the prize stag; the one thing he couldn't live without. Except more than that.

She knew as well as he did that danger came with the job, but god, to see that look on his face; to know it was for her. A warmth ran the length of her spine, past her tailbone and into the backs of her thighs where it tingled almost to the point of pain; her scalp tightened; her hand twitched. She moved herself away from the hot cup of water.

He took a single step into the room, coming to stand next to the chair she had vacated, still pulled out from the table, almost creating a barrier between them. He was still looking at her with that expression, his hand moving absently to rest on the chair back. Wordlessly, without breaking eye contact, she held up her arm, showing him the small strip of gauze stuck down with tape, no bigger than a page from his crime scene notepad. No sling, no damage; no rehab or retirement or death. Just a single gash, borderline needing stitches, but fine without them, on the underside of her forearm where she had landed badly. She was only back at the office because by the time she'd cleaned herself up and treated her wound, they were all wrapping up the incident scene downtown anyway.

"Andy" she said softly, and though she looked surprised, she really wasn't. "I'm fine. It's nothing-"

In a flash he was moving, all tense and hot and angry, and a million other things she couldn't see.

He practically threw the chair back in under the table in order to move it from his path. He stalked to her fiercely, his gaze nothing short of predatory- unmistakably instinctual, and entirely too intense. She was not a flighty person, but under that look she cowered, and inched backwards, her hand rising just slightly in defence. She didn't feel threatened; she felt disturbed. This was not the Andy she knew, even in his most passionate moments; even during their wildest sex. This was not a side she had ever seen directed at her.

In an instant he reached her, his hands clutching her face, firm, yet surprisingly gentle, one on each cheek. She wasn't going anywhere, but he wouldn't hurt her either, and she knew that if she threw her arms up or pushed him away, he would let her because he'd never harm her. She somehow knew, though, that if she did that she'd break his heart, and so she didn't move, and she didn't flinch. His face was almost snarling, his eyes wide, his lips pursed, his lower lids squinting with emotion. He stared her down, barely seeing her at all, and yet taking her in completely. Taking in every last inch of her.

"I'm okay" she whispered, trying desperately to calm him; to pull him out of the frenzy he had worked himself into. She didn't continue, and his eyes met hers, angry and intense, and she had no idea where he was coming from, because she wasn't there at the scene to see the aftermath and the closure. But she remembered a time when Fritz and Brenda had been working together, and she'd been in the crossfire- they'd all been watching her walk into the crossfire- and she remembered Fritz's face when Brenda was finally safe, and the way he'd screamed at her as he'd held her close.

"I don't think you understand" he hissed.

She couldn't respond; under that look, and with emotion that strong, she was lucky to still be standing. He looked angry. He looked one breath away from breaking down. He looked overwhelmed. She thought she finally did understand, but she couldn't tell him that- didn't have the right words to tell him that she finally knew exactly what he was saying.

"I want to _consume_ you"

She gasped.

His voice was barely above a whisper, so deep it was coming from a place down inside him; a place unreachable by anyone, except her apparently. Coming from deep in his chest and she could feel it rumble, though the only point of contact was his hands on her cheeks. He rubbed the fingertips of one hand into the hair at her temple and back again. She shuddered, and took a long, slow blink. She realised in that moment, that all those nights of supposed wild rides and cardinal fucking- all those times they had bent and stretched in ways no decent people their age should ever attempt to do again- he was treating her like a china doll, holding back and controlling, afraid to break her. Afraid to love her. This was a different beast altogether. This feral animal had the power to rip her apart and put her back together and make her hurt for days from the inside out, starting with her heart.

He took hold of her injured arm and looked down at the gauze, running his thumb along the seam. He pulled it up to his lips and kissed it, feather-light, and then released her, the same fingers tucking her hair behind her ear before resting again on her cheek.

"I want to strip you bare" he continued, softer than before, but no less intense, the floodgates opening as they looked at each other and finally decided it was time for the truth. His fingertips traced her collarbone, and her neck, and her ear, but returned always to cupping her face, the way a parent holds their newborn for the first time; the way a collector handles a thousand-year-old vase. Like something invaluable.

"I want to lock you in your room and make love to you until we can't physically move, and then I want to wrap you in my body and never, _ever_, let you go"

She was gasping for breath, silently, her lips parted, her eyes wide, her inhalations so deep that with every lungful of air her breasts grazed his chest where he was standing, a mere inch from her, but still not touching. She couldn't think. She couldn't hear anything except his words, punctuated with the rhythm of her rushing heartbeat in her ears and the drag of breath in her throat as it worked around the lump that was slowly forming there.

She had assumed she was the only one getting in this deep; she had always guarded herself, knowing that of the two of them, she loved him more, and she'd accepted that reality because she was willing to take what he could give. Apparently she'd been very wrong.

"Why didn't you come earlier?" she asks, referring to the hours since she was knocked to the ground. Referring to everything, really. She tried to reign in her thoughts, but when she spoke she sounded breathless, and entirely too weak for her liking. Despite what he had come to believe, she wouldn't crumble, and she certainly wouldn't disappear in a cloud of smoke because he got a little too involved.

"I didn't want people to talk" he answered, moving his hands at last from her face to her shoulders. It didn't matter; it still felt like he was holding her heart in his hands. She could still feel the impression of his skin on her cheeks.

"If you don't get off me people really will talk" she answered throatily, a small shudder running through her.

He searched her features, looking for something, and after many long heartbeats he brought his eyes back to hers and smiled, just so, just enough. He didn't move away.

When they'd started this dance a little over six months ago, she never could have predicted it would bring them here- standing at work, confessing their love in not so many words, and trying hard not to rip each other's clothes off. When they'd started this dance she'd cared for him a great deal, but she hadn't loved him, and when he'd slowly backed her into his bedroom, kissing her lightly, she was willing to go, because he offered her uncomplicated sex with someone she could trust. They'd been casual, but an unspoken exclusive- on call when needed but certainly not in a relationship.

When they'd started this, she hadn't seen herself needing to explain to him that he could love her as intensely as he liked, and she would match it- wanted to match it- wanted to show him that she wouldn't break under that look that he was giving her; the feeling like he could see through her eyes and her heart and her mind, right down to her soul, and ask it to dance for him.

She raised her hands and placed them on his hips, just above his belt. He seemed to relax, and she wasn't sure why. She tried to liken it to the time he'd been hurt and he'd called her first, but she hadn't loved him then, and so all she can imagine is worry and concern, not the impression that the rug could be pulled out from under her feet and she'd be left with no floor beneath.

"It's late" he said, trying to sound professional. "I've been told to tell you that the scene has been processed and you should go home and rest, because you need to be here early tomorrow to wrap this up"

"Okay" she replied with a nod. She pursed her lips and tried to shake away the last few minutes. He started to move away from her, and without thinking she wrapped her arms around his middle and buried her face in his chest, breathing in his scent. She wasn't surprised when his arms immediately came around her and he tucked his nose in her hair.

"I've got you" he whispered, rocking her just slightly from side to side in comfort. Her fingers flexed against his back, but she didn't feel like crying, or breaking down, or any of the other things he probably imagined she was feeling.

"Take me home" she replied.

He rocked her once more, pulled back, looked her in the eye, and then kissed her, workplace be damned. She tipped out her tea and picked up her bag from the table, and then, one arm around her shoulders, rooting her to his side, he lead them through the empty squad room and to the elevators.

_A/N: Written as a prompt-fic for sanctuarygurl22: "Sharon/ Andy (established couple)- Sharon is injured on a stakeout and Andy has to hide his urges to rush the her side for fear of the squad finding out about them." _

_Though I've worked the basic premise into this fic I did change the general idea. I hope you still like it though. Please let me know what you think. _


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